La Marseillaise
by madame.alexandra
Summary: The story of what happened when Jenny Shepard shot that guy in Paris, and Leroy Jethro Gibbs covered for her. Also-a less whimsical look at how they navigated their relationship after Marseille. Jibbs, Back-in-the-Day, smut/langauge warning.
1. prologue

_._

* * *

_La Marseillaise  
(The Marseille Song/Song of Marseille)_

_prologue_

* * *

On the patio balcony of a bar in the heart of Paris, she leaned back in an elegant, woven wire chair and exhaled tobacco smoke. Her cotton-candy pink manicured nails held the casually smoldering cigarette delicately and she tilted her head to the side, long red hair falling playfully over one shoulder and wispy styled bangs lightly brushing her eyelashes.

She smirked at a the lazy joke one of the Russians was telling in his thick, lilting French and lifted her eyes to the sky, drawing her lower lip between her teeth in a bitten pout.

Smoking was not something Jennifer Shepard regularly did, and cotton-candy pink was not a colour she had any love for, but tonight in Paris she was not Jenny Shepard, and part of her personal touch to her elaborate cover was that she distinguish the woman who didn't really exist from the woman who did.

The little things mattered, her ex-Marine of a partner told her; nothing so intricate she couldn't remember, but just enough so she didn't drown in her false life. She smiled a somewhat troubled smile to herself, thinking about him, and tangled thin fingers in the double string of pearls at her neck.

She was alone tonight; Gibbs was somewhere in Les Visenet cozying up to a blonde Russian bombshell's notorious hooker friend. Knowing him, he'd have her charmed and spilling secrets in a mere week—without ever laying a hand on her, if Jenny had her way.

The glamorous conglomerate of trussed up thugs she was observing tonight were talking nothing but women, wine, and wicked behavior. Not a whisper was heard about gun running, arms dealing, or human trafficking, and so it was just another night for Jenny to gain their trust; one step towards infiltration. She diligently showed a practiced lack of interest in the Russian; she wanted him to come to her, as that would ensure he felt in control and able to trust her.

The Russian spoke to her, asked if she'd enjoyed his jest, and she answered in a manner that was both coquettish and unconcerned, expressing more interest in the sleazy French businessman sitting next to her. He was yet to be profiled by NCIS, and this was only the second time she had come across him. According to sources, he was a mid-level pimp who specialized in Middle-Eastern women—and used his brothel to launder money for the Russian.

He was handsome in a filthy way, and Jenny had no problem enticing him a little if it meant he'd brag about his business and give her details on all the pies the Russian had his fingers in. The more he talked, the later she stayed at the upscale bar, and the easier it was to forget the cluster_fuck _that had muddied her mind since _they_ had returned from Marseille eight days ago.

She ran her fingers through the pearls and lowered them into her cleavage, watching the Frenchman's eyes follow them lustily. She smirked and took another drag of the cigarette, nodding her head demurely when he offered to purchase her a drink. Conversation turned to Cold War political grievances as a glass of red wine was placed in front of her, and the woman the Russian had on his arm started kissing his neck lasciviously.

Jenny looked away, bored. She felt the Russian's eyes on her, she smiled at the Frenchman, and she thought of Gibbs. She felt a flash of misplaced jealousy as she wondered what he was doing with the blonde Russian's whore. She shouldn't care; it didn't matter.

The Frenchman's hand ran over her knee, pushing her dress up, slipping upwards inside her thigh—dangerously close to the weapon she had concealed there. She slapped his hand away; batting her eyelashes and tapping out her cigarette with a shy, fake laugh.

"Gérard," she trilled girlishly. She puckered her red lips and tossed her hair. She made a comment to the effect of him not having bought her enough drinks for that, and he smirked eerily at her.

She turned away, and found the Russian pulling his little tart's hair. The woman looked uncomfortable, but said nothing, and in the next moments, the evening was over; the Russian was dismissive of them all, clearly intent on taking his woman back to wherever he hid out when he was in Paris.

For the benefit of her cover, Jenny implied reluctance to part with the company; she pouted and simpered and then finally agreed that they would meet again next time—and next time she would have the information the Russian wanted, because that is who he thought she was, after all—a French national, turned Bolshevik-wannabe

She allowed Gérard to escort her out, his roaming hand around her waist. He kept his other hand tucked subtly into his pocket, but she was trained and she knew it to mean he was carrying. They were an eye-catching group—arms dealers did so love hiding in plain sight—covered in glitz and smoke and mirrors, and the Russian, his woman, and the others departed in a trickle, taking their time and drawing no suspicion from the sparse Parisians out this late.

Gérard suavely offered Jenny line after line, coaxing her to come home with him, and she toyed with him—ensuring the Russian's last eyeful of her that night was one that involved Gérard kissing her a little too hard. Alone on the streets finally, she pushed the French pimp away and turned up her eyes in a doe-eyed way, refusing him.

He grabbed her arm and bent it behind her back, pulling her closer, and she winced, taken aback. He was just a grunt, one of the Russian's cronies; he was not supposed to be dangerous—

Jenny planted her feet as he ran his hands over her roughly, lowering his mouth to her chest. She realized he wasn't taking no for an answer; she realized she was in a bad position.

She bolted backwards.

"_Non_," she barked at him angrily. She spat a batch of choice swear words at him in French and stomped her foot to indicate hurt feminine feelings, but anger flashed in his eyes and he came after her, grabbing her and forcing her into a slim alley between the bar they'd just come out of and an empty restaurant.

He shoved her against the wall, and her head throbbed as it knocked against stone.

"_Non_," she snarled again, fighting him. He pushed her hands back, raked them along the rough wall so her skin tore, and then grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down to her knees in front of him, executing a frighteningly skillful move that ended with his knees hitting her shoulders right at the painful joint intersection and pinning her down.

She tried to scream, her breath catching in her throat in silent terror. Cotton candy pink nails or no, she was Jenny Shepard now—and she was scared, and she had no back up. He was bigger than her, definitely stronger than her, and she couldn't get to her weapon.

She struggled to move her arms, but he slammed his knees into her harder and she cried out, pain rocketing through her. He brought his hand to her jaw and held tightly, so tightly she _felt_ the skin bruising, and then he cracked his knuckles across her cheek sharply.

She spit at him, and gnashed her teeth. He yanked her head back by her hair, fumbling with his zipper with his other hand. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and clamped her mouth shut, biting the insides of her lips until her eyes watered. He forced her head down, and still she held her mouth tightly shut. She flinched away from him, refusing to open her eyes. He raked his hand down over her face and covered her nose, closing her airway, and finally the urge to breathe was overwhelming and she parted her lips desperately.

She choked in air and pressed her lips together before he could shove her mouth down on him, but she didn't have enough time to clam her teeth down. He pushed his fingers between her lips and yanked at her teeth, pulling her mouth open, and rather than acquiesce, she _bit_ him.

He swore and knocked her head back. Spots exploded before her eyes, but still she forced herself to shake off the instant dizziness and take the opportunity to thrust herself at him, throwing her entire body weight into his knees and taking him down. Even disoriented, the bastard was stronger than her and he fought back hard, enraged by her little teething exercise.

He tried to pull the thin straps of her black cocktail dress down, but she threw a punch at him and thwarted him; he broke her pearl necklace instead. The beads clattered around them and she struggled hard to get him off of her. He reached between her legs and she screamed at the top of her lungs, to scare him, to draw attention—_anything_.

She felt his hands brush the gun and in the split second that he paused in shock, she threw him onto his back with the muscles of her thighs—just like she had Gibbs, in a different scenario, in Marseille—and she fought him down onto his stomach, riding a rush of adrenaline that told her _get him down or get raped_.

She got her gun into her hands and one of his hands behind her back, panting hard. Her eyes stung, her head spun, and she felt her throat tightening, like she was about to vomit and cry all at once. She suddenly felt very young and very green; she didn't know what to do with him—let him go, and she wouldn't be safe; but take him in? She could blow her entire cover—she needed Gibbs to tell her what to—

He wrenched with his body, nearly throwing her off of him, and she lost her balance, flung to her hip on the cold ground of the Paris alley. He rolled towards her, swearing violently, calling her all sorts of violent names, and she grit her teeth, scrambling to her knees in a haze of pain and lunging at him.

She shoved him back to the ground, her hands shaking with fear and disgust, and her thoughts crashed together in her head—frightened, unclear thoughts. She jammed the gun into the back of his neck, yanked up his sport coat to cover her hand and his head, trapping the fun in the little cloth tent it made, and fired.

She gasped at the sound of the gunshot and hot, coppery blood and pale grey brain matter splattered over her hand.

* * *

_prologue_

* * *

_._


	2. stepped in it

_A/N: the premise of this story is to illustrate what happened "that time" she "shot that guy" in Paris. Referenced Season 3 Episode "Probie". it has no connection to my trilogy or any other back in the day story I've written. it also stands to address a thornier situation than just a romantic instant love affair; they were undercover and he was out of a rough divorce. it was probably a bit of tense start. _

* * *

_La Marseillaise _

_une_

* * *

She got in the shower immediately upon her return to their safe house and washed red blood, black mascara, and pink nail polish down the drain. She washed her mouth with soap, winced every time her hands ran over her sore jaw, and then dragged herself out of what had been a scalding, cleansing shower when the water weakened and chilled.

She still felt sick but she couldn't rid herself of the feeling; her throat seemed permanently locked. She wanted to vomit; she couldn't. She resorted to sticking two fingers down the back of her throat and forcing herself to retch. She flushed the toilet and poured mouthwash onto those two fingers, scrubbing her tongue and teeth vigorously.

Her eyes burned and her hands shook as she combed wet knots from her hair and blow-dried it mechanically, shaking out the long scarlet locks until they had dried to their natural auburn-ish rose colour. She dressed in a loose tank top that clung to her wet skin, a short pair of cotton pajama boxers, and then she sat cross-legged on her bed and pushed her hair back.

She set her jaw and picked up the first aid kit she'd laid on the bedside table, clearing her head as best she could and beginning to tend to the raw scrapes on her knuckles and palms. Her jaw throbbed, and she swallowed hard, ignoring it. She wracked her brains, trying to work out what she'd tell Gibbs.

She knew she had a right to protect herself and eliminate a threat to her life, but this was something that could fuck their entire operation. Whether she was tied to it or not, the death of a member of the Russian's entourage would spook all players on the team.

She moved her hand, and the raw skin cracked—dry from the shower, and from the antiseptic she'd just used. Blood began to ooze from the torn skin and she closed her eyes. The gunshot echoed in her ears eerily, and she flinched, almost able to feel the blood splatter her arm again.

The door slammed downstairs and she jumped.

"Jen?" he yelled.

She held the antiseptic wipes to her knuckles again and steeled herself.

"Here," she shouted back.

She was lucky he had been out later than her; she couldn't imagine what it would have been like to come home with the blood and fear on her if he had been here. Her throat started to lock up again and she took a deep breath.

He didn't come up right away. She heard him in the kitchen, and then she heard him on the stairs. He gave a courtesy knock before he barged in and looked around warily. She looked at him calmly, her features schooled. Gibbs picked up the black cocktail dress she'd been wearing, running his hands over it. She saw him smirk, and her eyes ran over his body, from neck to groin.

He caught her looking suddenly, and she embraced it, giving him a hard glare.

"How was the hooker?" she asked brazenly.

"Ugly," he said, deadpan.

Her lips turned up, but he noticed the smile didn't touch her eyes, and he came closer, narrowing his eyes.

"It all go down okay on your side?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Nothing to report," she answered dully, as she more often than not did. "It's the same lazy, decadent lifestyle. I caught the Russian's eye," she remarked.

Gibbs was damn near hovering over her now, looking down at her hands.

"What happened?" he asked sharply.

He reached down to take her hands, and she held her breath when he touched her, flashing back to Marseille. She turned her head—and that was a mistake. He noticed the bruise on her cheek immediately and cupped her face gently.

"Jen," he breathed harshly. "You call this okay?"

"I got into a bad spot with a mid-level money launderer," she said slowly, easing into it. "French brothel magnate," she murmured.

His thumbs ran over the bruise so lightly it didn't even hurt her. She turned her face towards him and closed her eyes. Her lashes brushed his thumb and she felt him looking at her intently.

"He know you're a narc?" Gibbs asked doubtfully. Their covers were good, and they had barely scratched the surface of the arms ring—no one should even be looking into them yet.

"It was unrelated to the Op," she said coolly. "Isolated incident. He wanted a blow job."

"He _what_?"

"He got rough, Jethro."

Gibbs pushed his hand through her hair. She flashed back to Marseille again, all those times he'd pulled her hair and groaned her name into her neck. She pulled away a little and nodded.

"You—" Gibbs paused carefully. "You fight him off, Jenny?" he asked quietly, uncertain.

She straightened up and tilted her head back, pushing his hand away and touching her own bruised jaw. She nodded, and she could feel the relief coming off of him. She wrinkled her nose and then breathed out heavily.

"I shot him," she said heavily, the words straining through her teeth.

Gibbs visibly stiffened, his face changing indiscernibly. He narrowed his eyes tensely, a muscle in his temple throbbing in what was easily a mix of shock and anger.

"You shot him?" he repeated. "You _shot_ him?"

"Yes," she confirmed hoarsely.

"You _kill_ him?" demanded Gibbs.

She nodded, looking at him wearily. She reached out and touched the back of her neck, her fingers in the shape of a gun.

"I killed him," she confessed, repeating him.

Gibbs swore. He reached up and ran his hand roughly over his jaw. He turned abruptly, paced towards the wall, and then turned back around sharply.

"Jesus _Christ_, Jen," he growled loudly. He swore again.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, abandoning the first aid materials and burying her face in her hands for a moment. Her hair fell over her face and shoulders and she tried to breathe. She drew in a deep breath, and when she lifted her head, he was looking at her with a dark, harsh expression. He said nothing, and the silence was too much for her; she flung out her hand.

"What was I supposed to do?" she asked desperately. "_Let_ him _rape_ me?"

Gibbs' jaw tightened, and she saw the rage flash through his eyes at the mere thought, but still he stayed on point, concerned about their precarious clandestine positions.

"You weren't supposed to _shoot_ him!" he barked. "You have any idea what kind of mess that puts us in—Jesus _Christ_," he growled again, pacing away. He pushed his hand into the wall and bowed his head for a moment.

She stood up, upending the first aid kit, and put a hand on her hip.

"I know it's a mess," she said tensely. "I fucked up, I can't take it back—"

"You're damn right," he lashed out, whipping around to face her. His mouth tightened. "You've got to think before you act, Jen, you can't just haul off and shoot some guy because he roughs you up—"

She made an outraged noise, her eyes flashing.

"Listen to yourself, you son of a bitch!" she snapped violently. "If you had been there, you would have knocked him out before he could take a second look at me, you and your macho, over-sensitive, chauvinistic—"

"You didn't sock him in the jaw, Jenny, you killed him!" he interrupted harshly. "I wasn't there. This is on you."

"I had no back-up, Gibbs!" Jenny implored roughly. "I was alone. He's not even one of our targets, he's just a lackey—this isn't ideal, I know, but I can't believe I have to justify this to you—"

"You left a goddamn body in the streets!"

"He was going to rape me!" she shouted over him, her voice cracking. She stormed forward and shoved her hands against Gibbs, pushing him backwards. Her hands shook again and she pushed her hair back. "He had me on my knees, Jethro, and then he pinned me to the ground—he doesn't know who I am, I was just a fine piece of ass to him, and he wouldn't have cared if he _broke_ me! I don't even know how I got him down—he was twice my size and—"

"You got 'im down, Jenny!" Gibbs pointed out heavily. "Killing him was a step too far."

"I was scared!" she yelled, her eyes burning. "I thought—I could have knocked him out—but he would have threatened me constantly, I wouldn't be able to work and I already have to watch my back—"

"You could have knocked him out," Gibbs said pointedly, "and then I'd have taken care of it for you."

"I didn't fucking need you to take care of it, did I?" she said poisonously. "Little probie did fine by herself, didn't she?" she mocked.

"You jeopardized a mission we just started!" roared Gibbs.

"_He was going to rape me_!" she bellowed again, fighting hard to hold back tears. Why didn't he understand the terror that had driven her to just _kill_ the bastard? She let out a shaky breath, biting her lip hard.

"I don't care!" snarled Gibbs.

She felt as if he had struck her. She physically turned away from him, and though she saw the immediate horror that struck his own eyes the moment he realized what he'd said, it didn't matter. He had already said it; he'd already bruised her worse than the French scumbag in the alley ever could have.

He came towards her and she shut herself down, turning to face him. Her face was pale, her eyes wet, but her lips were set in a hard, unreadable line. He reached out slowly, a lax, defeated shame in his movements. She flexed her hand to push him away, thought better of it, and slapped him across the cheek instead.

She forced everything down into some dark corner of her mind. She made herself focus on the job; they had to move, they had to fix this, and she didn't have time to run into the bathroom and cry because she was so confused and hurt over her goddamn partner.

He clenched his jaw, and she stepped back from him.

"You are my partner," she said icily. "You are supposed to have my back. It is your job to protect me. I thought you were a better man, Jethro," she growled. She wanted to leave it at that, but she couldn't, her pent up emotions got the best of her and she shoved him again, her hands digging into his shoulders. "I _fucked_ you in Marseille," she hissed. "I _fucked_ you. You—"

Her voice broke. She turned away from him. She didn't want him to see the tears finally spill down her cheeks. He hadn't mentioned Marseille, _why_ hadn't they _mentioned_ Marseille—

"Jenny," he started warily.

"Get out," she barked, her back still to him. "Leave me the fuck alone, Gibbs." He saw her shoulders shaking, and her head bow, as she refused to turn around. "I have to figure out how to fix this. Get out."

* * *

He couldn't shake the look on her face from his mind.

He'd wanted to take it back the moment he had said it. He cared; of course he cared. She was his partner, at the very least. He had been so angry to hear her say that some thug bastard had tried to force himself on her, and then the anger that came with learning that he was dead and they were all in jeopardy compounded everything and he hadn't been thinking straight when he berated her.

They had to tread lightly and there was no room for careless, probie mistakes, but he would never have asked Jenny to take a beating for the sake of the job—not if it hurt her, not if it broke her. She could have maneuvered the situation without killing the mark, but he knew deep down that she was right—if she had fought him off, he would have never left her in peace.

It was the worst situation that could have possibly presented itself to her, and she had done what she had to do to protect herself—and he had _faulted_ her for that. He had stood in front of her and abused her when she had silently been pleading with him to understand her and to offer some comfort.

_It is your job to protect me._

He flinched at the words, rubbing his jaw hard. He stood in the kitchen, straining to hear her moving around upstairs. He heard nothing.

_I thought you were a better man, Jethro. _

He gripped the counter heavily. He shouldn't have lost his temper. She had to know—she had to know—that he snapped because he knew what was at stake if they were busted; if this blew their covers and the Russians caught them, she would be in for worse than anything that son of a bitch would have done to her in an alleyway—but try as he might, he still couldn't justify shouting at her like he had, he couldn't shake the guilt that plagued him.

Had he really told her he didn't care?

_I fucked you in Marseille!_

He closed his eyes and sank down, banging his head heavily on the countertop. She didn't need to remind him. He hadn't forgotten Marseille. He was trying to tread carefully, he had screwed up when he decided to hang back and let her take the reigns on that one—he didn't want to push her, but she must have taken it as if he wanted nothing more than a quick fuck in that stuffy attic.

He shoved himself away from the counter and started to go back to her, but he stopped himself, exercising restraint.

It was too soon; she was too upset and he had hurt her too badly to try to fix it right now. He went back to the kitchen and picked up his cell phone, slipping out to the back patio and ringing Decker.

She was in no state to handle this right now; he would have to step in for her and make sure she had time to get herself out of it. He had to have her back—because she was right; it was his job. It was his job to protect her, or how could she ever trust him enough to return the favor when he needed back up?

"Gibbs?"

"Decker," Gibbs grunted, wasting no time. "Need to know where Jen's meet was earlier."

Decker gave him the name of some swanky city bar.

"What went down?" Decker asked warily. "These are shady, suspicious pricks, Gibbs, she didn't give us away, did she?"

Gibbs made a careless, grunting noise.

"Nah," he lied easily. "She lost an earring on the sidewalk, s'all."

"And you're gonna go fetch it for her?" Decker asked skeptically. He snorted derisively. "Why the hell are you goin' out of your way—ah _hell_, Gibbs, you sleepin' with Shepard?"

Gibbs snapped the phone shut without answering.

* * *

It was fascinating how tampering with a crime scene was unthinkable when he was in the field as an agent, and a natural fact of the job when he was undercover as an operative.

Gibbs held a handful of pearls in his gloved palm. The creamy white beads shone dully against the chalky latex, and in the abominably dim street lighting he squinted around, ensuring he had policed every single gem.

"She severed the brain stem beautifully," Ducky mused in a detached manner. His voice was hushed, and the Scottish brogue was hard to hear in the dark Paris night. He examined the back of the dead body's neck, and clicked his tongue. "Rather impressive, considering the panic she was most likely struggling with."

Gibbs felt another overwhelming pang of guilt as Ducky mentioned how scared Jenny must have been, and tried to fight the feeling down. He balled his hand into a fist and slid the pearls into his pocket, standing up from his crouch and towering over Ducky and the body.

"It would be risky to move him," murmured Ducky, echoing the concern Gibbs had first voiced when he'd dragged Ducky from his warm apartment and towed him out onto the streets for a cover up mission. "Rigor has barely begun to set in, but," Ducky paused.

"Doctor the scene," Gibbs grunted.

"That would be the smarter option," Ducky agreed. He lifted the man's hand and examined his fingernails. "Ah," the doctor muttered to himself, plucking a long, red hair from the Frenchman's sleeve. "It would be unwise for us to leave anything that might result in Jennifer's DNA entering the system, even if they won't have a way to match it."

Gibbs nodded curtly.

"She has to be untraceable," he growled.

It would be catastrophic if some DNA of Jenny's was found on the scene and catalogued. Things went wrong on ops like this; if all targets were somehow not neutralized, a lone survivor could search through what had gone wrong and track that one Jane Doe DNA to Jen, wherever she was ten years from now.

"Can you fix the time of death?" Gibbs asked curtly.

"I am afraid that is not scientifically feasible," Ducky demurred. "It would require sophisticated chemicals I do not have." He looked up at Gibbs warily. "How necessary is it that he be dead at a certain time."

"She needs an alibi for the Russian," Gibbs answered shortly. "You think authorities can get an accurate fix?"

"They will certainly estimate within two hours, easily," Ducky replied honestly. "She shot him after she left the bar?"

"They saw her leave with 'im, Duck," Gibbs asserted quietly. They must have; it was the only way she would have ended up alone with this son of a bitch in a deserted alley. It must have been part of the game she was playing.

Gibbs prowled around the body and crouched down, running a gloved hand over him. He swiped two more red hairs off of the man's suit and clenched them in his fist as he put them in his pocket with the pearls. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, tightening his jaw.

"Ah, Jethro," Ducky said lightly.

Gibbs looked up, and Ducky was holding a pistol. It dangled delicately from his index finger, moving slightly back and forth. There was blood splatter on it, and Gibbs immediately recognized it as the unregistered piece Jenny carried. It fit her hands perfectly, and tucked neatly into a thigh holster with any dress she wore. He felt an unruly flash of annoyance that she'd callously left the gun at the scene.

"Toss it," he decided, reaching out and taking it. He emptied the remaining bullets and put them into a separate pocket. He'd have to chuck her precious pistol into the Seine, and he was sorry because it suited her so damn well.

"This is not a particularly incriminating scene," Ducky said mildly, looking around. "This man was unarmed, yes, but there is indication of a struggle and he has no defensive wounds, perhaps suggesting he was the aggressor."

"He was," snarled Gibbs.

Ducky nodded.

"I speak from the point of view of a French police officer," he placated calmly. "I would not be surprised if they chalked it up to another tryst with a whore turned ugly."

"Not worried about them bustin' her for this," Gibbs muttered, gesturing to the cold body. "She barely got a foothold with the Russian. This spooks him, he suspects, it all goes to hell," Gibbs was almost talking to himself. "She's got to find a way to work it to her advantage."

"I have no doubt Jennifer can do that, Jethro," Ducky said wryly. "I take it Decker has yet to find out about this debacle?"

Gibbs moved his head, his jaw tight.

"Figured I'd let him find out when French authorities find the body," he grunted. "I'll warn Jen not to let him know she's involved, at least until he get a feel for how the Russian reacts."

Ducky looked up curiously. He smiled slightly.

"You're covering for her," he remarked, mildly surprised. He raised his eyebrows.

"She's my partner," Gibbs growled stonily.

He jerked his head at the body.

"Rob him," he ordered.

* * *

They left the scene messier and cleaner than they'd found it. Gibbs smeared fingerprints with his latex gloves and Ducky ensured all of the red hairs were removed from the man's body. They made it look as if it had been petty struggle with a hooker, even flipping the Frenchman onto his back and sitting him up against the wall.

Gibbs resisted to urge to break the dead body's neck for good measure when he saw that they didn't have to make it look as if the man had been with a whore; his pants were unzipped and he was exposed already.

_He tried to rape me!_

_I don't care. _

Gibbs gave the body a swift kick to the ribs, and they left the scene. It was near three in the morning, and Ducky yawned as Gibbs returned him to his quaint city apartment. Instead of getting out, the older man sat in the car looking at the I.D. they had stolen from the man.

Gérard Sangreal.

"_Sangreal_," Ducky murmured. "It means royal blood," he remarked skeptically.

"False name," Gibbs grunted.

That could be good, if the man was a paranoid nobody, or bad if he was more involved than they thought and blessed by the Russian with a deep cover identity.

Ducky snapped the I.D. shut and gave it to Gibbs. It was going into the Seine with the gun. Gibbs took the I.D. and threw it harshly onto the dashboard; Ducky watched, and then turned to look at his colleague.

"You saw the blood on the stone wall?" he asked quietly.

Gibbs nodded stiffly.

"Jennifer's?"

"She must be hurt," Gibbs muttered. "She had scraped knuckles, a bruised jaw," he shrugged. "Didn't see the back of her head."

"Good God, Jethro, what did the bastard do to her?"

Gibbs leaned forward to the steering wheel.

"Assault," he said dully. "She told me he tried to rape her."

Ducky made a quiet noise of dismay.

"It is a small wonder she was so violent with him, then," he said matter-of-factly. "The poor woman."

Ducky's automatic sympathy and heartfelt emotion nettled Gibbs. It angered him because he knew that is exactly what he should have given Jen, and instead he'd yelled at her—essentially made her feel at fault.

"I see what a mess this is," Ducky sighed. "Bad luck that she's to start off with such suspicion, but you cannot blame her for killing him."

It was as if Ducky knew Gibbs had screwed up, and that pissed him off, too. He grunted and unlocked the car doors pointedly, shooting Ducky a glare.

"Is she alright, Jethro? Should I provide medical attention?" Ducky asked earnestly, his eyes wide and kind.

"She's shaken up, Duck," Gibbs said. "She'll come to you if she wants you," he added. He didn't want to drag Jenny to Ducky tonight, or force her to see him if she was uncomfortable.

"All the same," Ducky said warily. "She should not be alone. She's been assaulted, and you've left her unprotected in the city."

Gibbs swore.

"Dammit, Ducky, I had to take care of this for her!" he growled.

Ducky looked harsh suddenly.

"This could have waited a mere hour or two," he said coolly. "Perhaps you should have taken care of _her_."

Frustrated by Ducky's wisdom, Gibbs turned away from him, his gaze stony. He felt like the doctor was ripping back layers of skin and seeing exactly what was underneath: the awful things Gibbs had said to Jen, the way he'd messed up the aftermath of Marseille. He wanted the older man out of the damn car.

He thought he was rid of Ducky when he abruptly leaned back in, his eyes uncertain.

"Jethro," he asked urgently. "Is this—has Jennifer ever killed before?" he demanded, worry creasing his face.

The realization hit Gibbs like a freight train. He leaned forward, scrubbing his hand over his jaw roughly, his chest tightening at the thought: the first kill was never easy, no matter how prepared you were, no matter how evil the bastard was.

He shook his head.

"No."

* * *

There was a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table when he returned to the safe house. The lights downstairs were on, but the upper level was dim and when he mounted the stairs he found her door tightly shut.

He steeled himself for the anger that might come his way and tapped on the door lightly.

"Jen," he growled softly.

He knocked a little louder when she didn't answer, and finally after a long pause he heard her call out in a small voice:

"It's unlocked."

He slipped into the room and she rolled over in bed, fumbling to turn a lamp on.

"What do you want?" she asked tiredly, her tone sharp.

"I wake you up?"

"No."

He approached the bed and she sat up warily, looking at him through heavy lashes. Her eyes were red and raw, her face was pale, but her mouth was set immovably. He crouched down so he was eye-level with her and reached out his hand.

"Is the back of your head injured?" he asked gruffly, beckoning with his fingers.

Her brow furrowed and she parted her lips. When she didn't move, he moved his hand a little more urgently, narrowing his eyes.

"I want to see how bad it is, Jen," he said tensely.

She rolled onto her stomach closer to him and sullenly let him pick through her hair. She closed her eyes, thinking of Marseille again every time his fingertips brushed her scalp or the back of her neck.

He felt no matted blood or open gashes, just a swelling bump. He pressed lightly on it, and she hissed sharply, jerking away from him. He ran a hand over her shoulder soothingly, quietly apologizing. His gaze wandered, and his eyes narrowed; the backs of her shoulders were bludgeoned with large, ugly purple bruises.

He bit back a remark and just rested one palm on a bruise for a moment, soaking in the warmth of her skin. He felt her looking at him and forced himself to meet her gaze in a contrite, non-threatening way. She parted her lips and shifted her head, throwing more light on the bruise on her jaw.

"Where did you go?" she asked hoarsely.

He slid one hand off of her and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the handful of pearls and let them fall onto the bedside table carefully into a little pile. They made soft, clear clicking noises as they hit the wood. Jenny pushed herself up, her pupils contracting.

"You policed the scene?" she asked shakily.

He ignored the question, and tilted his head at the pearls.

"Was the necklace important to you?" he asked bluntly. She looked confused, and licked her lips. Her eyes questioned him, and he waited tensely for an answer. "I can re-string 'em," he offered, realizing she was unsure what he wanted her to say. "If it means something to you."

She reached over and pushed her hand into the pearls; they scattered around the table and onto the floor. She shook her head, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, bangs falling in her face.

"It doesn't," she said distastefully. "Not anymore."

There was no special significance to the pearl necklace; it was another piece of jewelry she'd gotten from her father after one of his trips abroad. It was by no means her favorite thing he had given her, and it was from the days when he'd been distant and embroiled in his legal troubles; now it was just broken.

Jenny turned her face away, her cheeks flushing.

"I left my pistol at the scene," she snapped to herself, clenching her fist on the sheets. "Goddamnit."

He shrugged.

"Took care of it," he said vaguely.

She winced.

"Does Decker know?"

Gibbs just shook his head, though she wasn't looking.

"Let the authorities find the body," he said quietly. "See how it plays out."

She looked back at him finally, her eyes unreadable.

"You covered for me?"

"You aren't out of it yet, Jen," he warned sagely.

She said nothing. She reached up and pushed her hair back, laying flat down on the bed. Her eyes closed and her face screwed up. He recognized the look of a woman holding back tears and he leaned forward on the bed, folding his arms. She shook her head roughly.

"He would have raped me, Jethro," she said huskily. "He—I clamped my mouth shut but he _pried_ my jaw open. If I hadn't bitten him I don't—I don't think I could have gotten him off me and—I was not going to just spread my legs to salvage the operation, Jethro!"

She was back to calling him Jethro, and she sounded so distressed. He watched her without speaking, trying to fathom his thoughts into some comfort for her.

"You bit him?" he asked.

"I bit him," she agreed, nodding. She let out a reckless, mirthless laugh.

Gibbs smirked, but there was distaste written all over his face. He extended his hand and slipped it into hers, squeezing.

"Jenny," he muttered, his features heavy. "You did what you had to," he told her grudgingly. He swallowed a bad taste in his mouth. "It's okay."

Her hair was falling in her face.

"Is that some sort of apology for what you said to me?" she demanded quietly.

Pain struck the lines around his mouth and eyes. He leaned forward, his mouth brushing her knuckles. He was so accustomed to never apologizing, that it hadn't crossed his minds to say those words. He nodded slowly, his lips still moving lightly over her scraped skin.

"I still fucked up," she whispered disparagingly. Her eyes squeezed shut. "Goddamnit, I should have knocked him out or," she paused. She could have left him there unconscious, and found some way to protect herself, couldn't she have?

Gibbs moved his head sharply.

"_I_ would've killed him if he raped you, Jen," he said bluntly.

"Charming," Jenny simpered, her voice cracking. She held onto his hand, wincing as the flexing muscles tugged on her raw skin and sent little throbs of pain up to her wrist.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her intently. He thought of Ducky's final words to him in the car and he set his shoulders back, stroking her knuckles again. His thumb ran over the skin and he thought of Marseille, and the way her knuckles had turned white when she gripped his biceps in bed. He breathed out heavily.

"Bastard was your first kill?" he asked gruffly, though he knew the answer, and it was really more of a statement than an inquiry.

"He died so," she began, and then broke off, searching for some way to describe it. "Brutally," she finished, her voice hollow. "It wasn't cinematic or profound it was just—blood."

Gibbs nodded. The reality of taking a life was much less dramatic and epic than media could make it seem. It was as she said—it was death, it was a life snuffed out, and it was millions of stories and memories eviscerated.

He squeezed her hand and stood up slowly. She shifted and looked up at him. The silence between them was charged with intimacy, and it spooked him immediately. He tried to fight the urge to bolt, but he couldn't shake it down. She bewitched him in some way that he hadn't felt since he was with another woman, a long time ago, and he needed to catch his bearings.

"Marseille," she muttered curtly. "You think about it at all, Jethro?"

"It's late, Jen," he said tightly.

God, it was so late. And he'd messed it up so badly, when they got back from Marseille and he didn't say anything to her.

She snorted derisively.

"You fucked me because I was there," she growled dully, "because my hair is red."

He wanted to tell her it wasn't that. He couldn't. He kept seeing her face as she pushed him away from her. _I fucked you in Marseille. I fucked you! _She had taken just as big a risk as he had, jumping into that, and he had failed to catch her when they fell back to the ground in Paris because he wasn't sure he'd landed on his own two feet. She had crashed next to him, and now there was everything and nothing in the sliver of space between them.

"Get out," she told him, for the second time that night.

"You'll have nightmares, Jenny," he warned quietly. It wasn't a possibility as much as a fact of life.

"I don't care," she answered nastily.

Her voice cracked.

He left, and he sat outside her door for a long time in silent vigil.

He still hadn't seen her cry, but that night, through the heavy wooden door, he heard her.

* * *

_-note: i like to use the word fuck. ironically, it makes things cleaner, in my mind. _

_feedback appreciated_  
_alexandra_  
_story #150_


	3. covered her ass

_a/n: i try to operate on a select few separate wavelengths of how Gibbs could have been back in the '90s, when he was in his serial marrying days, and there's a few possibilities i see. tried this one out-somewhat different from what i usually do, but not necessarily. he's just-looking for something. _

* * *

_La Marseillaise_

_deux_

* * *

He firmly sat a mug of scalding hot coffee in front of her. She blinked at it tiredly, her lips pursed.

"You want to talk about Marseille?" he asked bluntly, breaking the morning silence unexpectedly, and with startling poignancy.

She watched the steam curl up from the black coffee, felt his eyes boring into her back, and swallowed hard. Her brows furrowed warily, and she scoffed in disbelief.

"Do _you_?" she retorted skeptically. He was Gibbs; he didn't _talk_. He didn't even talk when he was ordering her to do something, he simply expected her to interpret his glares. She sensed his frustration at her curt reaction, and she shook her head, lowering her hands to wrap them around the warm mug. She shrugged. "You didn't talk when we got back," she rebuffed tightly.

She lifted the coffee, staring into the dark liquid. She could almost see her reflection; it was so glossy and opaque. She needed it that strong this morning, or she'd be quick to dilute it with sugar and soy.

"Why say something now?" she asked in a hollow tone.

"We hit the ground runnin', Jen," he pointed out logically.

He was right; when they'd returned from Marseille, Decker had swamped them with late nights in the field—and on top of that, it was necessary to keep their cover as law enforcement attaches with the French Police. She knew they had been busy, but it didn't matter. There was more to his lack of intimacy than exhaustion or scarcity of time.

"I know," Jenny said tensely. "I know, but you—you didn't say _anything_, Jethro," she forced out quietly. "You didn't touch me, you didn't," she paused unhappily. "I sound like a damn teenage girl," she growled at herself, falling silent.

Behind her, he rubbed his jaw and backed away to pour himself a cup of coffee. He wasn't well versed enough in this sort of thing to know what he should say, and he was bad enough with words in normal situations. He thought it best to keep his mouth shut so he couldn't stick his foot in it.

"I could have made a move," she began hesitantly. "But your body language was off, you—are, you are distant." She was talking into her coffee. Her lips kissed the edge of the mug for a moment, and then she took a swallow, wincing as the bitter brew went down.

He carried his mug over to the table and stood there, ignoring the burn on his skin as he held the coffee and looking at her stoically. She did not look up at him, and he found himself instead fixated on the bruise on her jaw.

Her scraped knuckles were raw on her mug.

"I didn't think it would be…a one night stand," she confessed finally, her voice getting smaller. "There was so much—buildup and foreplay in London and Naples and I didn't think you were trying to just _sleep_ with me. I thought you were trying as hard as I was not to cross that line." She gave a hardened little shrug and turned her nose up stoically. "But that's on me, Jethro. I'm an adult and I shouldn't have made that mistake, I should have realized it was just the heat and the cramped attic—"

"It wasn't, Jen," he interrupted coarsely. "I didn't—" He stopped. He couldn't seem to get any words out, and the stuttering frustrated her because it reminded her how weak she had been feeling lately. If she was sitting here spilling her guts, why couldn't he just fucking say something?

She set her mug down and held out her hand.

"What the hell, Jethro?" she asked hoarsely. He sat down and her eyes never left him as he moved. He bent over his coffee mug and she leaned closer. "You said more—in bed than you're saying right now." She tapped her index finger against the table roughly. "I feel vulnerable."

Her voice cracked, but when he looked up earnestly to check on her, her face was the picture of composure.

"I slept with my boss," she said. "I have to be in a certain state of mind to just fuck a man, Jethro, and you weren't—aren't—I can't—you're not just some guy I met in a bar. I work with you. I am—attracted to you and it isn't," she looked away, and buried herself in her coffee again. "It isn't just physical," she muttered, resigned.

She drank slowly, and closed her eyes. He was silent still, and she slammed the coffee mug back on the table finally. Liquid sloshed over the sides, and she hissed when it burned and stung in the raw scrapes on her fingers.

"Will you say something you mute son of a bitch?" she snarled at him.

He reached out and took her hand, checking the scrapes and the burns with mild concern. He pulled her hand closer and used his T-shirt to dry off the injuries, and she watched the muscles in his jaw stiffen as his teeth clenched.

"You saw how nasty my last marriage was," he grunted, his eyes on her hurt hand.

It was a harsh little statement, reminding her of what a boar he'd been at the tail end of his divorce when everything just kept getting grittier and crueler.

"I didn't _marry_ you in Marseille," she groused quietly, her tone sharp. "It was just a good hard fuck, right?" she threw out sarcastically.

"I was there, Jen," he said shortly, giving her a warning look. She yanked her hand back and glared at him intently.

"You," began Jenny. "You—backed off because of the last woman you were with?" she asked uncertainly.

He let her think that. He backed off because he was mature enough to differentiate the way he'd felt about his two wives after Shannon from the way he had felt about Shannon, and the feelings he had towards Jenny were much more akin to the Shannon side of things, and that frankly terrified him.

She looked frustrated.

"There is something between us," she muttered uncertainly. Out of the blue, she gripped his hand tightly. "Sleeping together didn't fix it because I just," she paused, and her eyes ran over his eyes and his lips. "I just want to fuck you again," she admitted huskily.

He smirked.

"Yeah," he agreed—to all of the above.

She moved her shoulders tensely.

"I'm not asking you for a ring, Jethro, I don't even—I don't even know what we are or what I want but some—if you could just," she frowned. "Sleep in my bed." She shook her head and brushed her bangs from her face, sighing. "It doesn't have to end like your marriage ended."

Gibbs snorted sardonically. He rubbed his jaw.

"They all end that way," he growled, more to himself than to her.

If they didn't end in carnage, they ended with some woman he'd emotionally tortured taking him to court.

She leaned back. He still held onto her hand. Her shoulders felt heavy, like she was carrying something much too weighty for her. Her head ached, because she hadn't slept at all last night—he was right; she'd had nightmares. It was too early to be talking like this, and in mere hours they would be embroiled in the situation concerning Gérard Sangreal's corpse.

It was a lot to bear.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw again, and furrowed his brow. He shoved his face into his hand and made a frustrated noise. A muscle in his temple throbbed and he set his shoulders back stiffly. He looked up at her, and there was a resigned sort of honesty in his bottomless blue eyes.

"I _like_ you, Jen," he growled, sounding annoyed with himself. He felt like an idiot, but he didn't know how else to tell her he hadn't meant for her to think he was just using her that night in Marseille. Love was too strong a word, though he was wary of how he felt and dreaded that he might be catapulted into that sort of deep water without warning—just like it had happened with Shannon, on that fateful bus ride from Stillwater.

He swore under his breath.

"Should've taken you to dinner first," he muttered.

She laughed outright, tilting her head back. He was relieved to see something other than melancholy from her, and he arched an eyebrow.

She wasn't even entirely sure why she was laughing, except for a moment she finally felt like she could relax again—like that weight was off of her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled.

"You owe me dinner," she agreed mildly.

He smirked. He stood up and moved over to her, leaning down to check the back of her head and run his hand over her jaw. She sobered slightly, lowering her lashes as he examined her. He was worried, and that soothed her anxiety about how much he cared for her, but it reminded her of the mess she was in.

"Dinner," she amended quietly. "After I fix this shit."

He ran his hand lightly through her hair, and she tilted her head back, leaning into his touch. She let herself flash back to Marseille, with less apprehension and anger this time, and shifted towards him, reaching up to brush her fingers against his collar. She pulled him down.

His lips met hers gently, less aggressively than they had in that sweltering attic, and she savored for a moment what it was like to _really_ kiss him—without all that urgency and heat and pent-up frustration and lust. It was a real kiss, a long, slow, hot kiss, and she let herself think for a moment that if she kissed him until it suffocated her, this whole trigger-happy nightmare would be fixed.

But kisses didn't fix mistakes.

For his part, he would have lifted her onto the table and taken her right there, if Ducky hadn't interrupted.

The good doctor cleared his throat loudly and politely, and Jenny turned abruptly away, shoving her face down into her coffee mug to hide the red flush on her cheeks. Without a word, Gibbs turned to a cabinet and grabbed a box of Ducky's tealeaves.

Jenny licked her lips and stood up. She met Ducky in the doorway and kissed his cheek chastely, smiling tiredly.

"I suggest we turn on the news," Ducky said lightly, after he had greeted her warmly.

She nodded.

"I'm going to get dressed," she excused herself.

She left the men in the kitchen, and Ducky placed his coat and his bag on the table, glaring with a raised eyebrow at Gibbs' back. Gibbs finally turned around and blithely handed Ducky a mug of steaming water and a teabag, ignoring the admonishing look on his face.

"That is not exactly what I mean when I said take care of her, Jethro."

Unable to resist, Gibbs gave him a smug grin.

* * *

The small television in the safe house's sunroom had not been running for very long before they heard mention of the murder. A clean cut, clipped French woman delivered the morning news in dulcet tones, spending about as long on Jenny's kill as she did on a dead child found in the Champs-Elysees and a hit-and-run over on Decker's side of town.

The French media might be unperturbed by the death, but shortly after the news aired Jenny's cell phone rang. Gibbs and Ducky both watched her as she answered.

"Shepard," she said, well aware it was Decker.

"You seen the news?" the control officer asked. He swore. "We just began our infiltration, and this dick goes and ends up dead. The Russian is going to close ranks."

Jenny nodded to herself. She still couldn't shake the shock that Gibbs hadn't contacted Decker immediately and had him running damage control.

"There is no guarantee the Russian will connect this to us," she said carefully.

"Nah, not to us, not to NCIS. But he'll damn well see it as an excuse to be wary of outsiders. I told you Gérard Sangreal was a mid-level pimp and money launderer, but clean money is important to arms dealers," Decker growled. "He was at your meet last night, Jenny."

Jenny stood up from her seat and paced away. She tossed her hair back.

"Yes, he was there," she confirmed curtly. "There was nothing amiss. The Russian was with a whore, and he seemed amenable to my attempts to broach an exchange of information."

"And Sangreal? Was he involved in business talks?"

"It was a social affair," Jenny said tightly. "I am not entirely sure what Sangreal's function was being there."

"It's possible the Russian is grooming him," Decker said abruptly. "I have considered the possibility for a couple of weeks, but recent information seems to make it more likely."

Jenny's stomach dropped. She turned around and found Gibbs' eyes.

"He was part of the inner circle, then?" she asked, and she saw Gibbs' face tense as he processed the information.

"He was at least well on his way," growled Decker. "I've no concrete confirmation, but Agent Callan's work in Serbia has led him to believe a whoremonger who used to run some gang towns there is the same man as Sangreal."

"Ah, so his true ethnicity is Serbian."

"No," Decker said sharply. "Russian."

Jenny closed her eyes. If she had inadvertently killed one of the Russian's favorite pets—

"You got any idea what happened, Shepard?" Decker demanded. "You see him with anyone?"

She bit her lip. She knew Gibbs had told Decker nothing, and if she spilled the beans—which she wouldn't do over a cell phone—she would undo what he'd gallantly and riskily done for her, and she couldn't do that.

"I was the last one seen with him," she admitted curtly.

"Fuck," swore Decker. "_Fuck_!"

Before she could think, Gibbs had taken the phone from her. Jenny sat back down heavily, and Ducky moseyed over, resting his palm lightly on her shoulder. She leaned forward and bowed her head into her hands.

"No, you just keep your ear to the ground, Deck," grunted Gibbs simply. "Listen to the scuttlebutt."

Decker's voice went up several decibels, and it sounded like he shouted at Gibbs that he wasn't the one in charge here.

"You're a control officer," growled Gibbs. "You aren't in the field. You gotta sit some stuff out!"

Decker ran his mouth for a bit, and Jenny got up and left the room.

"Yeah, I can cover it—damn, Decker, it doesn't have anything to do with Shepard luring him off!"

Jenny winced and hid herself in the kitchen, leaning back on her arm again. Ducky sat down next to her and leaned forward.

"Might I examine your hands, my dear?" he asked kindly.

Gibbs must have told him where she'd been hurt. She smiled a little and placed her hands in his. He tilted his nose up and lifted her hands a little, holding them up to the light. He nodded, looking none too concerned.

"Superficial scrapes is all," he murmured thoughtfully. His eyes travelled to her jaw. "Is that painful?" he queried.

She shrugged.

"Not very," she demurred.

Ducky scooted his chair forward, gently laying her hands down.

"And your head, may I take a look?"

"It's nothing, Ducky," she said coolly, but turned around to give him access regardless.

His probing fingers travelled delicately over her scalp in a much more practiced, medical manner than Gibbs' had. He hummed quietly and frowned, gently prodding the bump on the back of her head.

"You haven't had a headache, have you?"

She laughed dryly.

"Gibbs is a headache."

Ducky chuckled, patting her shoulder.

"Best keep an eye on that, nonetheless. How hard did you hit your head?"

"I've had worse," she said grimly. "My shoulders took the brunt of it." She shrugged heavily, and pulled down the side of her loose cotton shirt, exposing the ugly bruises and scraped skin on the back of her shoulders.

Ducky sucked in his breath sympathetically and took a closer look.

"Broken skin," he murmured. "Heavy bruising—uncomfortable, but nothing life threatening," he assured her.

She smiled a little and shrugged her shirt back on, slowly turning to face him.

"I suppose Monsieur Sangreal's injuries were rather more daunting," she said mirthlessly.

Ducky gave her a soft look and reached for her hand, patting it in his.

"I doubt you want to be congratulated on taking a life," he remarked solemnly, "but I did tell Jethro your shot was impeccable, considering the sort of state you must have been in."

Jenny laughed hollowly.

"I doubt that made any difference," she muttered. She leaned over and looked at her hand in Ducky's. She blew her bangs out of her face. He tilted his head and gazed at her a little more intently, his wise, kind eyes lingering on her thoughtfully.

"Jennifer," he began delicately. "Are you alright?"

She compressed her lips.

"I'm fine, Ducky," she lied shakily. She closed her eyes and turned her mouth into her hand, so he was looking at the ugly bruise on her jaw. She sighed heavily. "Jethro said something to me," she murmured, and then her eyes flew open, as if she hadn't meant to speak at all.

"What, my dear?" Ducky prompted.

She shook her head roughly, and then glanced at him, a brow going up.

"Has he ever apologized to—you?"

"Gibbs?"

She nodded. Ducky thought about it a moment, and shrugged.

"No, I suppose not," he said. "Though I cannot remember a time I particularly required an apology of him."

Jenny frowned. She moved her lips, and then pushed her hair back.

"Have you ever heard him-?"

"What has he done, Jennifer?" Ducky asked curtly, interrupting her.

She narrowed her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered testily. "He feels bad, I can tell. He hates himself. I still have this stupid, silly notion that I want him to look into my eyes and apologize."

The last bit of her sentence subsided into an unintelligible mumble as Gibbs stormed into the kitchen and chucked his phone onto the table. She paled slightly, unsure if he had heard her spilling her heart about him. She touched her lip and gave a slight shake of her head to Ducky.

It was bad enough she was feeling so vulnerable and girly; she didn't need Ducky cottoning on to what was going on between her and Jethro. Gibbs prowled over to the cabinet and slammed it open, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and pouring three shots. He thrust them in front of Jenny and Ducky.

"I take it Agent Decker is displeased?" Ducky asked mildly.

"Understatement," growled Gibbs, annoyed. "He thinks Sangreal was poised to be promoted from money launderer to head of a branch of the arms ring here in Paris," he informed them reluctantly. "The Russian has used him to launder money for years, and he has gang ties to Serbia; he would have opened a new market. They're aiming for Prague, too."

Jenny pulled her hand from Ducky's and lowered her face into her palms, ignoring the shot of alcohol. She cringed and shook her head, kicking herself mentally.

"This means what, exactly?" Ducky inquired.

"It means the Russian was about to expand his empire," snapped Gibbs. "It could mean he'll bolt back to Mother Russia and we'll lose our chance." Gibbs took his shot and smacked his hand heavily onto the table. He thrust his hand out. "We've got Shepard poised to lure him with her cover as a turncoat from DGSE, and now it looks like she won't get a chance to shake him down because she shot his little pet."

Jenny whirled on him.

"Decker told us Sangreal was no one! He told us he was a peripheral figure!" she barked.

Gibbs looked at her tightly, his eyes softening up a little. His jaw flexed and he leaned forward, clearly regretting sounding so inflammatory. She looked at him for a moment, and instead of accepting the silent contrition in his glare, she remembered his words from last night.

_I don't care!_

She stood up violently and flung her chair into the table. She took her shot, threw the glass into Gibbs' with a shattering sound, and left the kitchen. She didn't get far—she just got to the front porch, she got as far as slamming the door with pointed volume, when an idea struck her.

The Russian wanted to expand his empire to Paris, did he?

What luck; NCIS happened to be in Paris, looking for a way to infiltrate.

* * *

_You're not out of it yet, Jen._

He had warned her that she had to maneuver her way out of this. She had an epiphany on the porch—and she didn't waste her time. She left immediately, grabbing her phone and her faux credentials and heading to the French DGSE office to gather information.

She returned home late—Gibbs was waiting up, and when she walked in, he gave her a hard, mean look, angry with her for staying out so late and so off the grid, and then he stormed away to his room and slammed the door.

She collapsed at the kitchen table and began to work. She made calls; she made threats, and all the while she was doctoring documents and weaving a plausible story that would get her out of this. She didn't sleep, though she was tired as she had ever been, and when she broke to make coffee, it was morning and Gibbs was up.

He gave her a wary look. She pushed her hair back and gathered her things, her eyes heavy and lined with dark circles.

"Jen?" he asked. Worry creased his face. He touched her shoulder as she tried to move past him. "You need to sleep."

She moved her head. She couldn't sleep anyway, not if she wanted to, or if she had time. Her lips trembled slightly and she wanted suddenly to lean forward and rest her body against him. He was so big, so warm and strong. It would do so much for her soul. She moved her head again.

"No," she said vaguely.

He reached for her files, and she gave him a sharp look.

"What is all this?" he demanded roughly.

She gave him a cool look.

"The solution," she said bluntly.

It struck her suddenly, again, that he had covered for her, and a small look of relief broke over her face.

"I'm fixing it," she assured him confidently.

She turned and bolted for her bedroom, where she got in the shower—she had a visit to pay to a whorehouse that had once belonged to Gérard Sangreal.

* * *

It took a great deal of money and a hell of a connection she had with the CIA—she called in a favor someone owed to her father, a favor she couldn't be refused—for her to ensure that the senior Madame at Sangreal's brothel would back her up.

She needed Élodie Marquette to fabricate certain information and complement stories, and afterwards, DGSE and the CIA promised Jenny the woman would be given immunity for the money laundering she'd done, and safe haven within the U.S.

Jenny liked the whore enough, and she didn't take much convincing to turn her back on Sangreal; as it turned out, he was abominably rough with all of his women. Élodie Marquette saw the make-up faded bruise on Jenny's cheek and though she didn't remark on it, tightened her mouth and became quite amiable to Jenny's words.

She spent as long as was necessary at the whorehouse, and then she sequestered herself in a pew in the Church of Notre Dame, where she memorized her story within an inch of her life while she pretended to pray—until the pretend prayers turned into real ones, and she spent longer in the church than she'd meant to.

She was brutally tired, emotionally and physically exhausted, and her mind wandered in that church from the job at hand to her strained relationship with Gibbs. He was concerned for her, and that eased her doubts some, but she was still smarting from his harsh words, and the way he'd turned and run when they got back from Marseille.

There was something in the way he reacted, the way he struggled to _like_ her, that sent up red flags.

He was a very damaged man, and she didn't think she'd understood the depth of that until he looked into her eyes and couldn't tell her why he seemed to be so afraid to be with her.

She clasped her hands together like she was a good Catholic—if she were Catholic at all—and she closed her eyes heavily.

She had been occupying herself with this solution, listening to Decker's calls, his updates, working with her contacts while Gibbs worked his, and she was waiting on the coroner's report from Sangreal's body—it was distracting her from Gibbs and seemed simultaneously to be making it worse.

They had been so close, so _close_ before Marseille. They were always more than partners—they were friends, they were tentatively exploring each other; she still remember how out of control he'd gotten when he kissed her in London, and the way his hand had lingered so hotly on her thighs when they hid in that barn in Naples. There had been so much build-up, so much intangible connection.

She should have slept with him when they first paired up—then this wouldn't be so maddening; she was a pro at using sex as an icebreaker. It almost made the feelings that came after easier to handle, since that barrier was already broken. But when she let herself get so emotionally invested in someone before she slept with him that—that vulnerability just _seized_ her—

There was a loud noise; a patron of the church dropped a heavy hymnal.

She jumped, and winced. Her knees were sore. She brushed her lips against the fading scrapes on her hands. She had to try to sleep. She had to finish this first. She had to go to the safe house, before she lost her head.

She gathered her bag, and slipped sunglasses onto her face. She bought two cups of coffee on the walk back to a central area, and she hailed a cab. She rested her head heavily against the window, responding to the driver's small talk in elegant French.

It had been three days since she shot that guy.

* * *

Gibbs watched her chew on the end of a pen. He had already watched her knock back a handful of ibuprofen and chase it with a generous amount of bourbon. He hadn't asked what she was doing because he knew it was best he not know—he needed deniability.

He was busy covering her with Decker and with the home office in D.C. This had all come at the worst possible time, right in the middle of them trying to wade through the wreckage of what Marseille had done to their relationship.

It shouldn't have happened like that and he _knew_ it. He should have shown more affection when they returned from that godforsaken stakeout; he _should_ have said something. She was right when she said she thought he was a better man—he always thought he was, too.

She had been apprenticed to him at the tail end of his last divorce, and she'd witnessed every nasty knockdown drag-out he and Diane had put each other through. There had been a mellowing out time after that, when they were in San Diego prepping for the mission, and their partnership after that had resembled more of a courtship than mentorship.

He didn't expect to be so taken in by a woman right after the disaster of a marriage he'd just come out of.

He rubbed his jaw and shifted his feet, and Jenny pushed her hair back and glared at him.

"You're frustrating me," she growled stiffly. "Stop standing there. Stop staring."

He took a step back. He had been watching her intently for too long; it was no wonder that she was worried.

"You haven't slept, Jen," he reminded her tensely.

She shrugged. She rubbed her nose and snorted harshly.

"You were right," she admitted dully. "I had nightmares."

He nodded slowly.

"Come to bed," he coaxed quietly.

She turned.

"Your bed?" she asked testily.

His face darkened, and she pulled back from him visibly. He thought—he had made it clear—he wanted her to be in his bed. At breakfast the other day, hadn't he done what he could to let her know it wasn't just that he wanted to use her body? He grit his teeth, and he nodded carefully.

She turned away, shaking her head. She closed her eyes.

"I can't, Jethro," she said hoarsely. "Not until I clear this up—not until I get past this," she gestured to her documents, "this disaster. I can't handle you right now."

He wanted to hug her. Instead, he just nodded.

"Door's open," he offered, and he left her like she'd asked him to.

Jenny leaned forward and put her head on her arms, pressing her nose hard into her knuckles. She forced herself not to follow him immediately, because she knew she'd rip his clothes off and lose herself in his skin and his scent and his lips, and she meant it when she said she couldn't take it right now.

She was equipped to manage one emotional fracture at a time, and the shooting catastrophe took precedence right now. There was no feasible way to expect Decker to remain in the dark for long—he was already panicking, because the Russian was already making subtle, suspicious noise.

The Russian was looking in to all of his associates; he might get to Élodie Marquette before Jenny could get to him, and she could only hope Élodie would have the strength to keep it together.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her nose harder into her arms.

She forgot to stay awake.

* * *

He was downstairs prying her out of a nightmare less than an hour later. She screamed in her sleep, and she didn't realize it. She looked at him groggily, her hands shaking. Her back was damp with sweat, and some of the papers were sticking to her face.

He stroked her hair without a word and shuffled the documents away from her.

"It's okay, Jen," he murmured. He got up from his crouching position and pulled a chair up close to her, taking her shoulders.

She covered her face and leaned forward, very nearly falling onto his arms. He braced himself for her weight and she gripped him, her eyes facing downwards towards his thighs. She took gasping breaths.

"I couldn't get up," she moaned. "I couldn't get him off me," she hissed.

He squeezed her shoulders gently.

"He's dead, Jen."

"I killed him," she said. She winced away a little, but he held her firmly. "I shot him in the back. Blood. His blood was all over my hands."

Gibbs moved his hands down her arms.

"Come to bed," he ordered firmly. "C'mon, Jen."

She let him help her up, and followed him up the stairs. He took her by the hand.

"I need to finish what I'm doing," she choked out.

"In the morning," he growled.

He was itching to see what it was, but he let it be. He took her into her room, so she'd feel like she could kick him out if she wanted to, and he threw some pajamas at her from a drawer. She slipped into them with no modesty and crawled into bed. He stood uncertainly at the end of it.

"Just stay," she said, defeated. "Sleep with me."

He nodded. He was approaching the bed when he heard his cell phone shrieking in the next room, and he held up his hand and indicated he'd be right back. He jogged over to grab it, answering it as he went back into Jen's room and shut the door.

"Gibbs."

"Pearl earring."

Decker's voice was harsh, and full of pent up anger.

"What?" Gibbs asked, taken aback.

"The coroner found a goddamn pearl earring in Sangreal's throat," Decker barked into Gibbs' ear.

Gibbs said nothing. Then he remembered—

"You told me you needed to know where her meet was because you were going after her earring," snapped Decker.

Gibbs remembered. It had been the lie he'd thrown out—because it seemed logical, and because she had been missing jewelry when he saw her that night. He groaned and sat down heavily on the bed. She looked at him warily, her face pale and her eyes red.

"How is she involved in this, Gibbs?" demanded Decker. "What the fuck is going on?"

"She's got it handled, Deck."

"I'll tell you if she's got it handled," their control officer bellowed. Jenny sat up when she heard Gibbs' words. "I want her in the Paris safe apartment tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, Gibbs!"

Decker had hung up before Gibbs could answer, and Gibbs swore. He held the phone in his knuckles.

"Decker?" asked Jenny in a small voice.

Gibbs nodded curtly. She started to speak, and he held up his hand.

"Can you do what you need to do tomorrow?" he asked abruptly.

She swallowed hard.

"I need at least ten hours," she said desperately.

He nodded again.

"I'll cover you."

* * *

_feedback appreciated!_  
_-alexandra_


	4. alone, undercover, and in the field

_a/n: decker's a bit more of a dick than i usually portray him, but since we next to nothing about him, it's plausible in my eyes. not to mention he's in charge of a precarious under cover mission, so he's clearly on edge. last chapter! smut "warning", though i doubt ya'll want to be warned, you've probably been wondering why the hell i haven't written it yet._

_[there's a blatant Game of Thrones reference in this chapter, heads up.]_

* * *

_La Marseillaise _

_trois_

* * *

Decker was furious when Gibbs strolled into his apartment the next morning.

He had taken his sweet time getting there, so it was not particularly early when he arrived. He had taken a cab into the middle of the city where Decker was holed up for the duration of this operation, and he had taken the long route to stroll leisurely through the city. It was his goal to buy Jenny as much time as she needed.

"I said bring her with you," growled Decker, slamming the door violently. The noise echoed loudly, and Gibbs just raised an eyebrow mildly. He vaguely sensed he was supposed to be intimidated; he wasn't.

Gibbs shrugged, and moseyed into the kitchen. He looked around, snooping a little bit. He poked at a dirty bowl of congealed cereal in Decker's sink.

"She's not a dog," he said blithely. "Can't just put 'er on a leash and drag her."

"Where the hell is she?" barked Decker.

Gibbs pointed at the cereal.

"You ever gonna do dishes?" he drawled.

"Gibbs!" snarled Decker.

"She was gone when I got up," Gibbs said simply. "Didn't even make coffee."

Decker stormed over and started throwing dishes in the empty part of the sink. He flicked on the hot water and glared at it, either bothered by Gibbs' criticism, or just searching for a way to fill the silence. His jaw twitched unhappily and he grumbled under his breath.

"You call her?" Decker asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs retorted, narrowing his eyes.

"And?"

"Voicemail."

"Goddamnit," swore Decker. "Fucking _Shepard," _he muttered violently, shaking his head. "Who the hell does she think she is? She isn't in charge here, Gibbs," he reprimanded, turning on the senior agent. "She reports to you. You report to me."

Gibbs lifted his chin slightly, giving Decker a hard look.

"Got a year on you, Deck," he reminded him.

"I don't give a damn! _I _was given point here," Decker groused. "You got a problem with that, you take it up with McAlister and Morrow. Otherwise, you answer to me, and you have got to get her under control." He swore under his breath and turned the sink off. "What the hell happened in the streets, Gibbs?"

Gibbs shrugged his shoulders again. He knew his nonchalance was unnecessarily provoking Decker, but he had promised Jenny he would take care of this until she could finish whatever the hell she was doing.

"You know how it is," Gibbs pointed out. "You been there. You get into situations," Gibbs paused, and lifted his hands upwards. "Sometimes things go bad."

"_Things go bad_," repeated Decker sarcastically. "She shot a key player in the arms ring—it was her, wasn't it? She shot him?" he didn't wait for Gibbs to confirm or deny. "And you covered for her!" he squawked, outraged.

"Already told you, she's got it under control," Gibbs said harshly.

"She may think she does, but in the world of black ops she's an infant, Gibbs!" Decker railed. "I know Shepard's a fast-learner and she's an invaluable, quick-witted little asset, but she's a _probie_!" Decker turned and rubbed his jaw. "You don't let probies on the loose to clean shit like this up. You don't cover for 'em!"

"What would you've done, Deck?" Gibbs asked curtly. "The bastard is dead, either way."

"I could have started running interference immediately! I could have done something to plant information, to clean sweep the crime scene, rather than let French authorities discover it and plaster it all over the damn media. I figure you were out cleaning up after her when you fed me that bullshit about her earring," Decker broke off, his face red.

He shook his head wildly, getting heated up.

"There's going to be a full-scale investigation!"

"They won't find a damn thing," Gibbs said firmly. "I policed the scene."

"The earring," growled Decker. "You didn't police it well _enough_. They found her _earring_!"

"Where'd they find it, Deck?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't _care_—"

Gibbs almost cringed at the words.

"Where?" he interrupted harshly, getting louder.

"In the guy's throat!" shouted Decker.

Gibb gave him an angry glare.

"You ask yourself how her earring got in his throat?" he demanded roughly.

That had to have given Decker some pause—it wasn't as if Jenny was the type to get serial killer on them and start sticking trophies down the throat of her marks.

Decker mouthed angrily for a moment and then deflated slightly. He flung out his arm and twitched his shoulders in a sort of shrug.

"How?" he asked rudely.

"She didn't tell me," Gibbs admitted in a grunt. "But you can be damn sure he had her down if he got that close."

Decker rubbed his forehead roughly. He pointed at Gibbs, approaching.

"You're making bad decisions because you're fucking her," he guessed, asserting the information recklessly. "Shepard is damn good. I don't need the two of you hooking up and blowing this whole thing to bits because she can't resist whatever it fucking is about you that makes redheads think they've seen the promise land—she's a good agent, Gibbs, and she'll go far if you keep it in your pants and she keeps her legs closed—"

Gibbs made the decision to punch him about half a second after he'd already socked Decker in the jaw.

Decker stumbled back into a chair and blood spurted from his nose. Gibbs shook out his hand coldly, flexing his fingers. He had reacted instinctually, because he didn't like the way Decker was disrespecting Jenny.

"Are you _serious_, Gibbs?" Decker bellowed, his face turning purple.

* * *

Her nails were cotton candy pink again, and they looked flirtatious and vibrant paired with her loud yellow dress and harsh red lipstick. She was still playing the vixen, artfully orchestrating her cover, and the Russian seemed to enjoy it.

She stroked one finger across her lip, and then played with her earring. She had deliberately worn pearls. She intended to look brazen, and shock him with her lack of secrecy.

He was going over her documents, and she was lounging back, running her hand through her red locks coquettishly.

"You bring me these," murmured the Russian silkily. "Why?"

She inclined her head.

"You seemed disinclined to trust me," she answered in smooth, impeccable French. She flashed a delicate smile. "I am an impatient woman."

The Russian nodded as he perused the files once again. His lips curled distastefully, and then he snorted.

"That you are, Mademoiselle Primokova," he remarked mildly, using the patronymic of her cover name.

She leaned forward and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She let the contents spill out of it lazily; more show of openness.

"Anastasie," she corrected demurely. Her cover gave her a mixed cultural background; Russian father, French mother.

The Russian flicked his eyes over her and gallantly held his hand out in a sweeping motion.

"Anastasie," he agreed. He leaned forward and gave her a light. "In my home, we would call you Nastya. Perhaps—Nastusha."

"Ah," she said lightly. "No, monsieur, only if you were dearly close to me."

"Perhaps we will become close, Anastasie Primokova," he said, leaning back. He flicked his lighter shut and watched her smoke. He threw the files down on the table. "You say this man, my cleaner, was a turncoat," he growled, sharp suddenly. "You bring me proof."

"Irrevocable proof," Jenny said primly, wriggling her hands at the papers. "You spoke with Élodie at Sangreal's brothel; you know my intelligence to be true."

The Russian made a disgusted, sour face.

"You allege that Sangreal worked for the Americans," he growled. He tapped his finger harshly. "You tell me he is a—how do you speak, a rat, for this—this agency—"

"NCIS," Jenny supplied coolly. "The very same agency that sent the hit after you eight years ago, when the Mossad interfered."

She had gleaned the information off of Agent Vance in her research into her work.

The Russian made a hissing, spitting noise. He cursed and waved his hand, blowing it off.

"The Mossad," he growled. "I am not a Nazi, I have no time for the Mossad," he said flippantly. He leaned forward. "I sell to those who target ships, that is why these American Navy boys ache for my blood." He laughed. He rubbed his hands together. "I am too good for them, like a wisp of smoke."

His French was heavily accented with Russian thickness, and Jenny found it strangely enticing. She blew smoke through her lips and shrugged.

"It matters not to me," she drawled girlishly. "America, Russia—it is who pays more who wins." She rubbed her fingers together, and then pointed to her information. "This is my offering to you. This is how I prove you need me, I show you the rat within your ranks."

"And it is money that motivates you, Anastasie? Not love of country?"

"France," she trilled with a smirk. "Do I really love France? I am a child of two nations. Paris, _J'adore_. France? There is wine and there is cheese. And I am watching my figure."

"In Russia, there is but snow."

"And an ancient Empire," she whispered.

The Russian grinned. He leaned back and began examining files again.

"You know you accuse this man when you see his background is Russian-Serbian. Yet you expect me to believe he fled to the capitalist pigs? For what means?"

She shrugged again.

"The same promise the Americans give all—a better life," she snorted lightly. "Toiling day and night to widen the income gap."

It was working; she could feel it in her blood. She had utilized Agent Leon Vance's catastrophic attempt to bring down this bastard to her advantage; she was throwing suspicion wildly off herself and Gibbs and presenting herself as a hero rather than a wolf in sheep's clothing. The CIA had agreed to provide Intel for her; NCIS would come around when she convinced the Russian.

He raised his head.

"You killed Gérard?" he asked bluntly. "But you are a slip of a woman."

"Skilled with a knife," she said, drawing it into her fingers from her purse. "Skilled with a pistol, as well."

"Where is that pistol?"

"Flung into the Seine," she guessed. She shrugged as if she cared not. "I learned from his head whore that he was prone to violence against pretty woman. I lost a pearl for my troubles," she touched her ear delicately, "but the fox is removed from your henhouse, so to speak."

The Russian laughed. He eyed her carefully, for a very long time studying her. He leaned forward finally, watching smoke curl up from her cigarette. His eyes lingered on her nails, and he seemed to take a deep breath of her perfume and the tobacco.

"What is it you want, Anastasie Primokova? Glory? Money? Love?"

She took a drag.

"In," she answered simple. She planted her elbow on the table. "I want _in_." She tossed her tousled locks back. "You nearly put a traitor at the head of an arms branch here, reaching all the way to Prague," she smirked like a cat with a canary. "I want what you would have given him."

"And you think that your sweet position at DGSE will ensure I give this to you?" he asked.

"Can you afford to turn down the opportunity to spy on French coordination with the Americans, Anatoly Zhukov?" she asked innocently.

He arched his chiseled brows with a smirk of approval. He inclined his head, as if to accept her argument.

"Sveta," he called mildly.

A blonde woman entered—the beautiful, laughing blonde hooker from the bar. She looked infinitely more threatening and much less like a whore in this setting—in fact, Jenny must have mistaken her.

The Russian held his hand out casually.

"Say hello to Anastasie, kitten," he ordered. He gestured at the blonde. "Svetlana Chernetskaya," he growled contently. "My best kept secret."

Jenny showed no surprise, but her mind went insane—the invisible partner of the Russians, the one that always extradited him from ever sticky situation he got into—it was a woman, not some faceless man.

It was _her_.

Jenny shook hands with the blonde, and the other woman's soft, fierce eyes studied her intently. They were made of like stuff—that much Jenny realized immediately.

Svetlana spoke in Russian to her counterpart. He chuckled.

"She is the third head of our dragon, my dear," he purred.

_She had done it; she was in the clear._

* * *

In retaliation for what he saw as Gibbs' ridiculously immature punching shenanigans, Decker had elected not to speak to his colleague for the entire duration of their wait for Shepard to show herself.

He sullenly mopped up his nose until it stopped bleeding, and then sat stubbornly on his sofa watching television with a mechanical expression. Gibbs wasn't sure whether to laugh or solemnly accept his lot, so he chose instead to lounge in the kitchen.

He was checking his watch for the eighth time when she walked in and kicked the door behind her shut with a nude pump. The red bottoms of the shoe flashed, and she had a light ghost of a smile on her mouth as she chucked her purse onto the couch.

Gibbs stood, but Decker rocketed violently up from the couch.

"Explain yourself, Shepard!" he roared, cutting right to the chase.

She arched her brows. She took a seat on the couch, peering up at Decker, and Gibbs came into the room, standing ominously behind the couch, slightly near her. Decker was livid, but her train of thought was interrupted when she noticed Decker's throbbing nose.

"What…happened?" she asked.

"Your _boyfriend_ punched me," griped Decker sardonically, shooting a glare at Gibbs.

Jenny turned slightly. Gibbs nodded at her, deadpan.

She gave Decker an innocent look.

"He's not my boyfriend," she said blithely.

Decker gave her a distracted look, his eyes falling to her jaw.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice. "Tell me you didn't go meet up alone with these bastards—Shepard, so help me God—"

"I was with the Russian," she said calmly.

Decker looked like his head would spin off. Gibbs' eyes narrowed.

"Jen?" he asked sharply. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded.

"You told me to get myself out of this," she said icily. "I got out—or in, actually," she added, still cool.

Decker rubbed his face, towering over her. He looked over her, his eyes falling conspicuously to the ear that had no pearl in it. His eyes bugged slightly, but he swallowed more shouting.

"What did you do?" he asked tightly.

She leaned back, pushing her hair out of her face. She felt nervous—anxious—but she didn't show it. She had taken a huge risk, but it was looking _good_. In practiced monotony, she explained what she had been doing since the shooting in the alley—how she had orchestrated a frame-up that exposed Gerard Sangreal as a traitor operating for the Americans, and how she had leveraged Vance's failure to intimate NCIS was behind Sangreal and throw suspicion onto him.

When she came to the last bit of her conversation with the Russian, Decker's face turned white.

"The ghost? You identified the ghost?" he asked rapidly. "The ghost—is a woman?"

Jenny nodded.

"Svetlana Chernetskaya."

Decker turned, scratching his shoulders tensely.

"NCIS spends eight years trying to figure out who the Russian's partner is, and she bats her eyelashes and finds out," he groused. "Fuckin' brilliant," he muttered, shaking his head. He turned. "You took a big goddamn risk, Shepard."

"It was my mess," she said tightly.

Decker shot a nasty look at Gibbs.

"You're damn lucky this is working in our favor. If you'd let Gibbs cover your ass and this went raw—"

"It didn't."

"I want to know what happened," snapped Decker. "Read me in. Now."

"It is immaterial," Jenny said.

She had no taste for repeating the story. She hadn't talked about it with Gibbs, and as much as she liked, enjoyed, and respected Decker, she didn't want to relive it here.

"I am your control officer," Decker said dully. "I have to know everything, all information. It's a safety precaution. Tell me what happened in that alley, Shepard."

She compressed her lips until her mouth was white, and before she could answer, Gibbs saved her the trouble.

"Bastard assaulted her, Deck," he grunted coarsely.

Decker tilted his head, turning his ear closer.

"Assaulted?" he asked curtly. "How?"

Jenny flung her arm out.

"How the hell do you think?" she asked darkly, narrowing her eyes like an animal backed into a corner. "He pushed me down on my knees and tried to make me suck his dick."

Decker looked completely abashed. Gibbs raised his eyebrows at the back of Jenny's head, startled. He cocked his head and then looked over at Decker, waiting. The other agent glared tensely for a few moments.

"And you-?" he began hesitantly.

"I _spit him out_," Jenny said crassly. She blinked and leaned forward, rubbing her forehead. "I barely fought him off of me, Will," she informed him hoarsely. "He bit my earring off. He had his hand between my thighs," she shivered. "I don't know how I got him down, but I did. Except I didn't have cuffs, because I'm undercover."

Decker nodded. He rubbed his jaw. He shook his head.

"You had to kill him?" he asked tightly. "You could've just knocked 'im out. You had him off of you."

Gibbs saw that white colour hit her cheeks again, and he heard himself saying the same thing to her when she'd told the story. Standing behind her, hearing Decker say basically the same thing, he realized what a son of a bitch he'd been to accuse her when she'd been scared and hurting after a fight like that.

Jenny put her hands in her hair.

"He was going to rape me," she barked. "He was going to force himself on me! It was a violent sexual attack—why is it so hard for you men to get that?" she stood up, looking between them both. She blinked her eyes heavily; her lashes wetted.

"We're in an unstable situation, Jenny!" Decker pleaded. "It's a bitch, but you should have just backed away once you had him down—"

"God, you're an asshole!" she choked out.

"No," Gibbs said.

They both looked at him.

"No _what_?" asked Jenny sharply.

"You shouldn't have backed away," Gibbs said. He rounded on Decker. "Don't tell her to let some bastard put his hands on her for the sake of the job," he growled aggressively. "That isn't part of her job. She doesn't let someone rape her," he barked. Decker looked abashed at the suggestion.

"Jesus, Shepard, I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, you did," Gibbs said roughly. "You hinted at it. She got herself out of it. She turned it to her advantage. She doesn't have to apologize for putting a bullet in some guy who was gonna hurt her."

Decker backed off; Jenny pushed her hair back. She hid her face for a moment, stole a glance at Gibbs, and then she picked up her purse and left the apartment. She had taken a cab here, but Gibbs' car was parked on the street—and that's where she went; she curled in the front seat there, against the window.

He had protected her. He'd had her back. He'd been a partner. She had gotten _through_ to him. She covered her mouth and tilted her head back, closing her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Hearing him buck Decker's criticism like that—she wanted him so badly.

He showed up at the car moments later and got in, slamming the door.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

He leaned over and rested his palm on the back of her head gently, his fingers massaging her scalp. Strands of red hair sifted through his nails and fell over his arm. She turned towards him, and nodded. She licked her lips and then bit the lower one, lifting her shoulders.

"He was going to _rape_ me," she repeated, a quiet, strong justification.

This time, his response was different.

"You did good."

She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she sighed.

She turned away. His hand slid from her hair to her neck, and then down her arm. He took her hand in his and squeezed, his fingers fitting perfectly against hers. He tugged her towards him a little, and when she opened her eyes, his face was gruff, but his eyes were sincere.

"I'm sorry," he grunted.

He _had_ heard her tell Ducky she just wanted him to apologize to her, but he wasn't going to tell her that. He meant it—and he needed to say it to her. His apologies were rare, but he damn well gave them when it really was necessary.

She lifted her hand and brushed at her eyes. She sucked in her breath and held his hand tightly—and she didn't say anything else, but she smiled a little, and she did not let his hand go the entire drive back to the safe house.

* * *

He would have taken her to dinner, but it was late when they got back and she didn't seem to be in the mood. He killed the car's engine and turned to her, tilting his head.

"Want me to cook?"

She shook her head and ran her thumb over his knuckles.

"I'm not hungry."

He started to protest, but she leaned over and pulled his head towards her, pressing her lips into his. He tugged her hand into his lap, reaching over to take her shoulder in his hand, and she kissed him harder. Her bangs fell into her eyes and brushed against his forehead.

He shifted towards her, but his legs were too bulky to work with the steering wheel, and he was forced to break the kiss instead. She drew in her breath, her brow furrowing with disappointment.

"Inside," he suggested.

"Bed," she murmured.

He nodded, and they got out of the car, locking it and leaving it on the street before the safe house. He stood behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him as he reached over her shoulder and unlocked the door. His lips brushed the crown of her head and she ran her hands over his thighs, reaching behind her, before she stepped forward and led him into the house.

"Ducky?" she called mildly, as Gibbs shut the door and locked it.

"Duck, you here?" he echoed warily.

There was no answer, and Jenny closed her eyes in relief. They were alone, then. She started towards the stairs, but at the foot of them, he took her arm and spun her around. He pulled her close and resumed the kiss from the car. She leaned back against the bannister and tilted her head up.

It was so much softer than Marseille. There was less desperation, less chaos. His hands remained chastely around her shoulders for a moment, and then he let them wander—down her spine, to the edge of the zipper on the back of her yellow dress. She gripped the rails of the bannister behind her and leaned back, savoring the kiss. His jeans were rough against the bare skin of her legs, and she tried to avoid skewering his foot with the dangerous heels of her pumps.

She slipped her shoes off delicately and slid one of her feet under the edge of his jeans, pressing it into his ankle. He shifted towards her; she could feel the cold metal claps of his belt through the thin material of her dress. She moved her hands to his waistband and slid her fingers into his jeans, plucking at the material.

She didn't speak, but she disentangled herself and gave him a tug, coaxing him upstairs with her. At the landing, she was unsure suddenly whether to go to her room or his; he brushed past her and opened his door with a comically chivalrous expression, gesturing for her to enter. It brought a laugh to her lips, and she inclined her head primly. He shut the door behind her, spun her against him, and pressed her into it.

His body connected with hers solidly, fitting into her, smothering her with warmth and closeness. She breathed him in and put her palms against his chest, her hand travelling until she could feel his heartbeat. It stuttered rapidly under her fingers. Men reacted just like women did, physically. He could be turned on and vulnerable and emotional, but it was all trapped beneath that thick skin. She lunged forward and captured his lips again.

He shoved her back into the door gently. Her hips arched into him, and his hands went to the back of her dress. He fumbled with the zipper at the top and slowly slid it down. He didn't remove the dress—his hands travelled inside it, stroking her skin, pressing into her hips, and teasing the edge of her panties. She gasped, opening her mouth against his lips, and his tongue moved between her teeth.

She gripped his T-shirt tightly. Her lashes fluttered against his cheek and she moaned softly. He drew his hands up over her and pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. It pooled at her feet, and he took a step back, his eyes raking over her.

Tousled hair fell over one shoulder, her skin was flushed—and it highlighted the demure beige of her lingerie. She tilted her head back against the bedroom door, exposing her neck, and he felt a fierce desire to mark her there—but he didn't want to see any more bruises on her fair skin. His hands fell to her hips and he held tightly, fingertips digging into her.

"You look like this in Marseille?" he joked hoarsely, feeling as if he'd lost his breath.

"The lighting was bad," she muttered, laughing anxiously. "I'm sure I looked better."

He shook his head, running his hands up and down her torso, negating her self-deprecating statement.

"Damn," he swore appreciatively.

She wrinkled her nose, biting her lip. She wondered if this flattery was his way of continuing to make up for his behavior, but she didn't care. She enjoyed it. She stepped out of the yellow dress, closer to him, and he nudged it to the side with his foot, holding her against him, and then pushing her back against the door again.

His lips travelled over her neck, kissing hard and biting gently, and he reached for the straps of her bra reverently, drawing them down her shoulders. She reached behind her and unclasped the hooks. His fingers clutched the material as it loosened, and when she moved her hands back to his shoulders, he pulled the bra off, unlooping the straps from her wrists. She raked her nails down his shirt and lifted it up at the hem, pulling it up over his head and dropping it with her bra and her dress.

His hands covered her breasts, his thumbs sliding over her nipples in a way that made her breath hitch in her throat. He kissed the dip between her shoulder and her collarbone and she tightened her grip on him.

"Jethro," she moaned softly, arching her back. She drew in a deep breath and bit her lip. His mouth moved lower and his hands mimicked the movement, until his thumbs were drawing circles on her hips and his mouth was at her breast. She pressed her hands heavily into his shoulders.

He took her hand from his shoulder and moved his mouth to her knuckles, kissing the healing scrapes there. He pressed his forehead into her stomach, teeth nipping at her abdomen, making her muscles clench. His tongue traced the edge of her panties, the dips around her hipbones, and his other hand slipped between her legs, teasing her over the filmy material of the lingerie.

She squeezed his hand. He shifted to his knees and her hand slid into his hair. His fingers slipped against her and he made an approving noise in his throat. His teeth took the edge of her panties, and he pulled them down, sliding them past her thighs and knees with his hands.

"Oh, Jethro," she moaned hoarsely, as his lips lingered on the inside of her thigh, his fingers still stroking her. Her head spun. She pulled at his hair a little. "Jethro—oh—oh please," there was hope in her voice. He reached down to her ankle and drew his hand up her leg, holding her knee tightly and lifting her leg up.

He rested it over his shoulder and looked up at her.

Her head was tilted back. God, she looked so good. He turned his lips to her thigh and kissed her, his tongue moving over her possessively. She felt weak at the knees—she felt as if he were hero-worshiping her, there on the floor at her feet. His lips travelled higher, and he gripped the knee over his shoulder tightly.

"Yes," she gasped, when his lips took the place of his fingers. "Jethro-!" She arched her hips into his mouth. She lifted her hand shakily to knot it into her own hair, biting her lip as she turned her head back and forth. She leaned heavily against the door—she had never stood while a man went down on her—and tried not to fall.

She moaned, her breath catching in her throat. His tongue moved over every part of her, kissing, stroking, tasting—she hadn't expected him to be so—talented, though if the way he kissed was any indication—he dug his nails into her knee, and slid his other hand up the back of her other thigh to her lower back. His hands were as warm and teasing as his mouth.

She threw her head back hard, her knuckles turning white as she gripped his hair.

"God," she whimpered. "Oh, god, Jethro. I want—I want—"

His hand tapped gently against her thigh, as if he were asking her to clarify.

"I want you—I need you inside of me," she panted, her stomach tightening unbearably. Her muscles felt as if they would break if she didn't get her release—she wanted to shatter; she wanted him on top of her, his sweat and skin on hers—

He ignored her—he curled his tongue, pulled her a little closer. He held her leg against his neck and then slid his tongue inside her.

She screamed. She hadn't meant—she hadn't experienced—no man had ever _done_ that to her, and she felt the tension in her crack like a whip. She tried to catch her breath, swallowing hard, her shoulders shaking.

"Jethro," she cried out. "I'm—I'm going to—"

She couldn't finish her sentence. He didn't need her to. He knew she was coming; he could feel her muscles clench. He eased up on her a little and pushed two fingers into her where his tongue had been, transferring his kisses to her thighs.

She pulled his hair hard, her heel digging into his back, and she slid her hand from her own hair down her abdomen, her nails clutching at her stomach. She cried out again, his name tumbling from her lips in an appreciative mumble. She came so hard stars exploded in her vision and she doubled over, reaching blindly for his jaw.

He dragged his lips over her hips and stood up slowly, his hands running over her ribs and her breasts. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close again, and he laughed in a smug, proud manner. She leaned into him, her lips against his neck.

"God," she murmured.

He moved his head and kissed her recklessly. She could herself on his lips and tongue, and there was no time to decide how she felt about it. She was naked and he was still in his jeans; he was hard against her thighs and she could feel it even through the dense material. She undid his belt and whipped it off of him, pushing the jeans down with his boxers.

He groaned when her fingers stroked over him. She pressed open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and his chest, still breathing hard. She pushed him back towards the bed and he spun her around, executing a smooth move that had them tumbling onto the bed. She arched her back, gasping. She flashed back to Marseille, and all the heat and passion that had spilled over there, and it only amplified her desire. He was heavy and he smelled so damn good.

She shuddered, her body still throbbing with aftershocks. He kissed her hard, his hips settling over hers, and she moaned, her thighs sliding against his. She reached between them, her hand stroking his abdomen and finding his cock.

"Easy," she warned hoarsely. She was still sensitive; she wasn't sure she could handle him taking her hard. "Take it slow, Jethro." The way she said his name was throaty, her voice sounded like whiskey, and he groaned, exercising extreme self-control not to lose it.

Her palm slid against him maddeningly as she guided him into her in a slow stroke, and she drew her hand back over herself. Her stomach clenched and she cried out, arching her back. His lips captured hers for a moment, and she pressed her thighs into him, gasping his name.

"Jen," he growled huskily.

She parted her lips and threw her head back; he watched the colour spill through her cheeks again, watched it all happen again, and he lunged forward with a growl, thrusting deep. She cried out hoarsely again, her eyes closed. Her stomach clenched against him again and he still watched her; it was an unbelievable turn on to watch her come—and he hadn't gotten to see it moments before; he'd only felt it.

She pulled his lips to hers again and kissed him violently, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Fuck," she swore weakly. "Hard, Jethro."

She was the only woman he'd been with who wanted it rougher _after_ she'd been satisfied. He had more than taken care of her, and that gave him leave to take his pleasure at will. He drew his lips over her jaw, his hand sliding down to her thigh, pulling it around his waist. She squeezed her thighs around him and he groaned.

"Jen," he growled, burying his face in her neck.

Her hand ran over his neck, threading into his hair. She arched into him, giving him a mind-numbing angle, and he slammed into her a final time. He might have shouted something into her skin; he yanked at the sheets under them and held her thigh harder than he meant to, and he knew it would bruise.

She whispered his name to him.

"Jenny," he groaned desperately, shoulders shuddering. His lips and teeth moved against her throat silently; his final thrusts were erratic and slower, coming down slowly from a white-knuckled climax.

She tilted her head back and breathed out, relaxing slowly. He eased out of her gently, his tongue soothing the bite marks on her throat. He collapsed on his back and she rolled towards him, wrapping herself around him. His hands immediately stroked through her hair and he pulled her closer. She shivered. He turned his head towards her and looked at her.

His expression was raw and open; she savored it for a moment. Then he kissed her again, and their eyes were closed—and there was nothing to see. Her heart still beat wildly in her chest, and she bit her lip. Her eyes were stinging; she threaded her fingers into his hair.

"You still owe me dinner," she whispered seductively, her words touching him right all over.

He nodded, his lips moving in her hair.

"Whatever you want, Jen," he growled gently.

She wasn't even sure he realized he'd given himself to her like that.

* * *

It was not her own nightmare that woke her up in the darkest hour of the night. She slept soundly and warmly, better than she had in days; it was the sudden cessation of Gibbs' snoring that startled her into groggy awareness.

He twisted in his sleep, his shoulder shoving heavily into her. She rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, reaching over and running her hand over his chest. He made a noise in his throat, a broken, pained noise.

"Jethro," she murmured soothingly.

"Shannon," he grunted abruptly.

She took his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his jaw. He had said it before. She had heard the name before they had ever slept together, once when he had fallen asleep on a stakeout, and twice on the plane ride to Europe. An ache stumbled through her chest, but she tried to ignore it.

He jerked awake when her hair brushed his chest.

"Jen," he recognized her immediately, and she smiled a little in the dark.

He closed his eyes and reached for her uncertainly. His touch was hesitant; she felt suddenly like she wasn't the right woman; she wasn't supposed to be in his bed. She had thought it was the tryst in Marseille that made him wary—but it was her.

She spooked him, and she lay there stroking his hair and wondered who Shannon was, and what that woman had done to him that seem to have fractured a part of him he couldn't mend—she couldn't mend.

He was a mess, and she had fallen right into it. He had covered for her when she stepped in it in the Paris alley—but if Gibbs was the next mire she had to pull herself out of, because it took so much for him to just deal with feeling something for her, and he was going to inevitably hurt her—who would cover her when her partner was the hot mess she was trying to save herself from?

* * *

_"I'm not forgetting the time I **stepped in it** and you  
**covered my ass** until I could get out of it but that was **alone,**  
**undercover, and in the field**."  
[Jenny Shepard NCIS Season 3 Episode "Frame-Up"]_

* * *

_finis_

* * *

_feedback appreciated, and merci for reading!_  
_-alexandra_


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